STORYTIME

[themoosejthm]

So, when I was in Middle School, there was a teacher we're going to call Mr. M. He was a stout, balding man in maybe his early forties or perhaps his late thirties. He had a beer pot belly and seemed to always be bathed in either axe body spray or something equivalent. He taught computer science and wood working.

Yes, having a class titled “computer science” dates me – for those of you younger than me, that class was a basic “how to computer work” course where we learned things like typing without looking at the keyboard, what MS Paint is and how to use it, how to set up a printer, how to make power points with Microsoft software, and how to use the ~internet~ to research things. Wood working was also called “shop” and was what it says – you learned how to make things with wood and power tools. Not saws or anything with a blade, mostly just nails, screws, and hammers, but even that came with a BOOK of permission slips that had to be signed before you were allowed in the class.

For those of you not familiar with American school ages, middle school for us is usually the grades 6 through 8; though depending on the district it can also be grades 7 and 8 only. In my case, this middle school was only grades 7 and 8, which is ages 12 and 13; depending on birthdays and individual schooling choices, we could have children as young as 11 and children that just turned 14 in my middle school as well.

Please keep in mind that the children I am talking about are at the oldest just 14 and the youngest 11, almost 12.

So, in light of that general information: Mr. M was a fucking perverted man who liked little girls. Because when the oldest of us was just barely 14, we qualified as little girls still. Every student at my school knew this about him. The boys knew that they could tell perverted jokes they overheard from comedians, parents, and older siblings in his class and he would joke with them and tell them some new ones – all of these jokes were almost always sexual and since these boys were still going through puberty, they undeniably did not understand most of them. They just knew that these were jokes talking about ~sex~ and maybe ~boobs~ and I'm sure they felt very grown up to be able to joke with a grown up and not be told that was inappropriate or that they didn't know what they were talking about. Sometimes this was also not so harmless though, because these boys also knew that if they wanted to tease a girl and maybe cope a feel, Mr. M's class was the class to do it in because Mr. M would defend him from the consequences of his actions with the classic “boys will be boys, he's just becoming a man!” bullshit.

Every girl knew that if they wanted a class that they could do nothing and still get an A in, all they had to do was wear a short skirt and do some twirls in his class or lean over a desk while talking with friends while wearing said skirt and make sure Mr. M was watching. Instant A. Girls also knew that if they had more developed chests at that point, WHICH SOME OF THEM DIDN'T YET, they could wear a tank top with a push up bra and get the same results. Mr. M was not subtle about any of this – he was known for staring down girls' tops and for complimenting girls on their legs and hips.

So, to the actual story now that the background has been given:

In 8th grade, I was 12. I had a small group of friends and didn't really interact with others outside of that group. One time, in computer science, there was a cheerleader who was known as a popular girl and also a little bit of a bully. She didn't really interact with my group after the first time, if only because I very much live by “talk shit, get hit” and was a ball of rage as a little girl for other reasons we're not getting into here. (I say little girl because I was 12 – but I am also aware that I was tall enough that I was frequently mistaken for an Actual Teenager. Which I was not.)

Anyway, Cheerleader Girl, let's call her Samantha, that sounds like a preppy name.

Samantha and I did not get along, as you could probably tell from above. This day she was wearing baby's first make up look, a tank top with a push up bra, and a short skirt. She spent most of the class talking with Mr. M and a few of her other friends, who were all dressed similar to her, but they had the sense to sit in their own seats. Samantha was perched on Mr. M's desk and he was staring so creepily her friends had offered her one of their sweaters for her legs. Mr. M laughed loudly and made fun of Samantha for being cold. Message received, she didn't take the sweater to cover her bare legs from his gaze.

The bell rang and her friends sprang out the door. I gathered my things and kept an eye of Samantha, because while I didn't like the other girl, I wasn't about to leave her here with Mr. M.

Who stood up to close the shop side of the room's door, which left only the computer science door to leave through. No big deal, we were on that side of the room anyway. Samantha had gathered her things and was walking towards the door when Mr. M put his hand on her shoulder and asked her to stay behind to “discuss her grades”. Samantha looked at the few other students leaving, who all quickly scurried out and didn't look at her.

I stayed in the room, by the door.

“Michi, I have to talk to Samantha about something, could you please close the door behind you?” Mr. M said. Samantha looked uncomfortable. I didn't like this girl, but no way in hell was I leaving her here.

“Mr. M, we have a test next class and our teacher is going to be real angry if Samantha's late.”

“I'll write her a pass.” Mr. M said and his hand was still on her shoulder. Samantha laughed uncomfortably and tried to make an excuse about maybe they could discuss things next class. Mr. M wasn't having it.

Mr. M again told me to leave. I mentally sighed because I was about to get in trouble and I knew it.

“I'm not leaving her in here with you alone.” I said, clearly and out loud. I was already exhausted of this entire conversation and situation. I was going to get in trouble for a girl I didn't even like and it wouldn't matter because nothing would change.

“Excuse me?” Mr. M asked, clearly offended. “Michi, you need to leave or I'm going to have you written up.”

“You do that. Still not leaving Samantha in this room alone with you.”

Mr. M got even angrier and asked, multiple times, “what did I think was going to even happen?” He ranted at us both, gestured wildly, and at one point let go of Samantha. She edged closer to me until she was next to me and eventually we both got out of the classroom. Samantha was quiet and pale.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She asked and I shrugged. She went to art, I went to Math. Yeah. We didn't have the same class after computer science, that was a fucking lie.

She never thanked me or really spoke to me after that. I got in school suspension a few days later for something that happened, shock upon shock, in Mr. M's class! What a coincidence.

Anyway, the reason I'm telling this story.

Samantha found me via Facebook recently and messaged me. Due to her own reasons, she wanted to reach out to me and tell me she was thankful that I didn't leave her there with Mr. M that day. Neither of us have heard of Mr. M getting arrested for anything, we don't know if he's retired or alive or anything like that. But we're both adults now and she has children of her own and she reached out to me to thank me for getting her out of that room.

I told her that I was happy to do it, that I didn't regret it, and that was the end of that. I didn't do it for her to thank me. It wasn't about that. I knew I was going to get in trouble for it and I did and I never once thought that maybe I should have done something different.

Because I didn't like that girl but I sure as fuck didn't want her hurt.